Perilous Homecoming. Sarah Varland
look less like she was scowling.
Kelsey would have been successful, too, except that when she turned to walk to the refreshments table, she ran square into one of the people from her past she would have been quite happy to forget.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” The man’s accent was pleasant enough. So was his voice. It was clear he hadn’t recognized her yet—understandable, since her red hair was a bit tamer now than in their high school days, smoothed down and cut in an actual style rather than frizzed and messy. She’d also switched from glasses to contacts since she’d seen him last. She might feel like the same girl inside when she looked at him, but Kelsey knew she looked nothing like she had at age eighteen, which was the last time she’d laid eyes on Sawyer Hamilton.
Hamilton, as in those Hamiltons who owned half of Treasure Point, including the land surrounding this museum. His aunt Mary had given a small parcel of land along with the museum building to the Treasure Point Historical Society, but the Hamiltons still claimed the rest of what had been an immense estate. Sawyer, like all the Hamiltons, had always had everything.
“It’s all right,” she answered even though, really, was it?
In one way, yes it was. It was all right that his gaze had swept over her, taken in her face and clearly liked what he’d seen. Maybe it was petty, but Kelsey liked the affirmation of her attractiveness from the boy who had always made her feel like less, whether he meant to or not.
“I don’t believe we’ve met.” He flashed his signature grin, the one that had netted him the title of Mr. Popular in their senior class yearbook. He’d never used that grin on her before, and she was slightly ashamed at the way it gave her chills down to her painted toenails. “I’m Sawyer Hamilton.”
Kelsey smiled back sweetly. Sweet like a glass of sweet tea with twice the usual amount of sugar. Stickily sweet. “We have met, actually. I’m Kelsey Jackson. Good to see you again, Sawyer.”
At the mention of her name, his smile fell and his face paled. Still, he was handsome, with that brown hair not daring to be a bit out of place, those green-blue eyes that sparkled like he was sharing some kind of private joke with you.
Only there were no jokes between the two of them at all.
If anything, the joke had always been, and always would be, on Kelsey.
* * *
She’d grown up well—it was an understatement, but it was all his mind would articulate in that moment. “It’s good to see you again, too, Kelsey.”
Her eyebrows raised slightly and she shook her head. Then turned to walk away.
And then the lights went out. The hum of the electricity in the building—lights, air circulation—was gone all at once, but the gasps from people who’d been plunged into darkness without an explanation filled the void where silence would have been.
Sawyer didn’t move. It was just darkness, no need to panic simply because it was unexpected—although some people were concerned, judging by the sound of shuffling feet.
He tensed as something or someone brushed his left hand. He tried to move it away, but the glancing contact turned into a firm grip from a soft, small, feminine hand.
“Sawyer?”
It was Kelsey’s whispered voice. It was his turn to raise his eyebrows. A moment ago, she’d seemed eager to get away from him and now she was holding his hand? Surely she wasn’t that scared of the dark.
“Yeah.” He matched her low volume. “It’s me.”
“I need to get outside. You always carried a flashlight and a pocketknife in high school. Any chance you’ve got that flashlight now?”
“I’ve got one.”
“Great. Take me to the front door?”
It was less a request than a command, but considering the fact that nothing about this situation made sense, Sawyer wasn’t questioning anything at this point.
He pulled the small flashlight out of the inside pocket of his suit—glad he hadn’t been able to drop the habit and leave it at home. He’d dated a few girls over the years who had made fun of his tendency to be prepared, but Sawyer liked to think it came in handy now and then.
He shone the light on the floor in front of them. Kelsey didn’t release his hand, but allowed him to lead her across the mostly empty middle of the room. It seemed most of the people had pushed themselves back against the walls. There were a few other glowing spots of light in the room—apparently, despite the request from the museum board for people to leave cell phones at a table in the entryway, some people were still carrying theirs.
Finally, they reached the door.
“Thank you.”
She released his hand and then she was gone, running across the lawn with her red hair, curled at the ends, flying behind her, holding her dark blue dress up above her ankles with one hand so she could run.
* * *
Kelsey hadn’t run far from the blanketing darkness of the house when she ran almost straight into Clay. “Did you find anything?” she asked.
He nodded slowly, his face in the moonlight showing no signs of his usual lightheartedness or humor. “We did. Kelsey, it’s Michael Wingate. He’s dead.”
“The curator?” Her eyes widened as she tried to make sense of what she was hearing now, what she’d seen earlier and how they were connected.
“Blunt force trauma to the head is what we’re guessing right now. We won’t know for sure until the ME gets him to the lab.”
“Right, of course.” She nodded.
“Kels? You’re going to have to come to the station. Because if you were in that room and saw some kind of altercation on the balcony, you were the last one to see—or rather, hear—Michael alive before whoever killed him.”
“I’m coming in as a witness, right? Not a suspect.”
The look on Clay’s face said all she needed to know. Treasure Point may be the place that raised her, the happy home for her growing-up years. But almost from the day she’d turned eighteen the town had been nothing but kryptonite for her, some ridiculous weakness that rendered her powerless and made her feel sick. She wished she could just turn around and leave right now. But that wasn’t an option.
She needed this assignment in order to secure her place at the Harlowe Company, a prestigious antiques insurance company in Savannah. But Kelsey also needed this job to finish as quickly as possible, needed to get her feet as far away from this particular bit of red Georgia clay as she could. Treasure Point was nothing but trouble for her.
“Did you hear me?”
No, she hadn’t heard anything Clay had said after she’d seen the facial expression that answered all her questions. “I didn’t. What did you say?”
“If it was up to me, you’d only be a witness. But I’m afraid Davies is wanting to treat you as a suspect.”
Suspect. The word she’d only narrowly managed to avoid in the case that caused her departure from Treasure Point not too many years ago. She hated when her integrity was questioned.
“Let’s go, then.” She glanced toward the museum. “Although with that lights-off stunt not too long after what I saw on the balcony, there’s a good chance I’m going to need to be back here soon.”
“What do you mean?”
“Something is likely missing or vandalized. It’s going to be my job to assess that.” Her words came out tight, pointed. She felt bad that she was directing them at Clay, one of the nicest guys she’d ever known. But the prospect of being questioned about a crime she didn’t commit was enough to put anyone in a lousy mood.
Anyway, Clay was probably thinking along the same lines already.